Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  “It is only three miles long and one and a half wide and surrounded by water,” Columba was often heard to remark in later years. “Yet as cut off from the rest of mankind as our small troop is, when I walk this lovely island in the midst of such vibrant blue-and-green waters, I sometimes feel that the whole world is my own possession and that I am afloat on the seas of time.”

  He was not so far wrong. He had written the words many times as he had copied out the Scripture Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Whether or not he was yet one of the meek was only for God to determine. But Columba knew that on this island he felt the inheritance of the whole world. To walk its lonely pathways in prayer was blessing indeed.

  “Could more suitable spot exist than this wonderful little island from which to launch the Christian enterprise?” Columba said to his fellows the week before they embarked for the mainland. “Here both dawn and sunset tinge the sea with their glories. Here waves lap against warm silver sands, and, when the storms rage down upon us, crash violently against sharp jutting cliffs. Could any other place serve as such fit sanctuary in which for men to offer up their worship unto God?”

  Eight

  In late May of the year 565, Columba set out on a combined political and spiritual mission that would change the course of Britain’s future. In the next few years foundations were laid upon which the nationhood of Caledonia would be built.

  From Conaill they gained familiarity both with the route they would use and the Picts to whom they were going. The Dalriadic king supplied them guides and two Irish Picts, Comgall and Canice. They could interpret the strange Pict tongue and hopefully alleviate whatever potential difficulties might arise with the natives.

  Columba and his companions traveled by boat around Mull and into the Sound of Lorne, then northward through the four lochs, Linnhe, Lochy, Oich, and Ness—carrying their craft overland between them. The journey through the great series of glens bisecting the mainland lasted three weeks. At last, rowing down the Abhainn Nis, they drew within the environs of the mouth of that same river, the place known as Inbhir-Nis.

  In 565 this region was the seat of power of the northern Pict kingdom. It was ruled over by the twelfth great-grandson of the old Pict warrior who had, with his father, burned the Roman forts at Corbridge and Newstead. Through the twisting lines of peculiar Pictish lineage, Brudei macMaelchon now occupied the same chieftain’s role as had his great ancestor Cruithne, by whose name his very people were now called.

  Columba’s adversary would be the powerful druid Broichan.

  Though a Christian monk, Columba was sufficient believer in supernatural manifestations of both druidic and Christian origin to be affected by the shadowy sorcery of the times. Superstition lay in the very fiber of his race. His character, therefore, was woven from the same cloth as Broichan’s. As Christian priest his method was not apologetic like Paul’s in Galatia or Athens. He would rely heavily upon the miraculous to persuade the Pict king of the gospel’s truth.

  Columba brought a new supernatural myth to lay over an old mythology. He was the most prominent among many who now redefined the metaphysics of an old world by bringing Christian “miracle” to a Celtic culture. The Celts were a people who made cult-idols of their kings and warriors. Now came priests and monks telling of new Hebrew heroes. Later they would make hero-saints of the humble monks themselves. Still later would they deify the clan chieftains of their beloved Highlands. Christianity neither drove out the hero-cults nor the old myths. It recast and infused them with Christian identities.

  While the conversion of heathens to the Christian faith was of high concern, so was the future of Columba’s people and nation. While the Picts may have been Celts, the relations with them were of prehistoric distance, stretching back in time so far no mortal remembered them. If the Scots and Picts sprang from that same ancient wandering seed, little did they now consider the fact of import.

  Columba’s ambition was for his own people, the Scots of Dalriada. He desired to help Conaill expand his kingdom. If he could establish friendly relations with Brudei—presenting himself as much a prince of Erin as abbot of Iona—it would go far in securing the future of the Dalriadic kingdom. If the Picts could be converted in the process, so much the better.

  Messengers had been sent to Inbhir-Nis from Dunadd. They informed the Pict ruler that a man of high esteem and vaunted reputation was coming to seek audience at his palace. That he was reportedly a bard and holy man, whose blood ran with the kingly succession of Erin, induced the Pict leader to allow the party friendly passage through his land and to his court.

  When Columba drew near to Inbhir-Nis, therefore, Brudei was expecting him.

  Nine

  In a stone dwelling in the fortress of Brudei, not far from the king’s own residence, a boy of five ran excitedly inside the darkened enclosure.

  “Father,” he cried, “they have been seen!”

  “Who, Fintenn?”

  “The holy man—they are rowing him down the loch! May I go down to see him, Father?”

  The man turned toward the door and led the youngster outside. “You may go with me, Fintenn,” Aedh said, “but not alone. There may be danger. We know not this man’s magic.”

  Satisfied, the boy took his father’s hand.

  “May I come too, Papa?” called out a younger girl’s voice behind them.

  Aedh turned and nodded to the boy’s sister. The three walked toward the gate of the fortress, then down the incline toward the wide river mouth. News had quickly spread. Aedh and his son and daughter were not the only curious Caledonii of the settlement making their way down toward the water’s edge. In the distance, Aedh saw two boats, without sail, approaching from upriver.

  His brother would not be among those on the shore to welcome the guests, thought Aedh to himself. Even though the holy man from Dalriada was coming at his brother’s own invitation, Brudei was a proud man and would not emerge from his quarters too readily. He would give no premature homage to this newcomer, nor appear too eager before his people, and thus, in his own eyes, be the weaker man. Vanity augmented his pride, which perhaps contributed to the brawn with which he wielded his kingship.

  It was a vast empire over which the descendant of Foltlaig ruled, extending throughout all of northern Caledonia. Men and women throughout Pictland feared the son of distant Maelchon. But few could be said to love him.

  Aedh and Brudei were both sons of Baldri, it was true, but the great king of northern Caledonia and his humble brother could not have been more disconnected of personality and character. They were as different as had been Cruithne and Fidach, but with this distinction, that the uniqueness between the former drew tighter their filial attachment, while in the case of the latter, the bonds between them since the days of their youth had been nearly nonexistent.

  What could Brudei hope to gain by admitting the Dalriadic priest, Aedh thought to himself.

  Was it his brother’s fascination with wizardry? Perhaps Brudei was curious to see what manner of magician Dalriada was capable of producing. If the man truly was of Erin’s succession of kings, and capable of miracles besides, he would be a powerful force.

  Then again, Aedh thought darkly, his brother could be worried about a potential rival to his own power. It might be that Brudei had encouraged the visit in order to kill the man. Under ordinary circumstances his brother would not think twice about doing so. To take the life of one with occult powers, however, was dangerous to contemplate. Even Broichan the Magus might not possess power to save him from the tempest of the heavens brought on by such an act.

  Before he could reflect upon the matter further, however, a tug of his arm let him know they had nearly reached the river.

  “Come, Papa!” urged young Fintenn with the enthusiasm of childhood. “They are nearly to shore!”

  A small crowd had already assembled, though none of the king’s counselors or druids were among them. The two boats, seeing the fortress on the hill, had been
moving generally toward them for some time, and now bore straight at the gathering welcome.

  Before they reached the shoreline, a man spoke from the lead boat. “Greetings, fair people!” said the newcomer in their own tongue. “We bring you good tidings from the kingdom of Dalriada. We come as friends. We come under the authority of the abbot of Hy, Columba, son of Fedhlimidh of Donegal, who seeks counsel and friendship with your worthy and exalted king, Brudei, son of Maelchon.”

  The two crafts glided gently onto the sandy shore. Several of the men jumped out and hauled them thoroughly onto the beach. Since no officially appointed representative was present to receive the visitors, Aedh stepped forward from amongst his clansmen.

  “I am Aedh,” he said to the man who had spoken, “son of Baldri, brother to the king. My brother has taken to himself the name of our ancient and honored ancestor. He calls himself macMaelchon. In the name of our people, I welcome you to Fortress Brudei.”

  Now stepped out of the boat the commanding figure of another who took several steps forward, looked Aedh firmly in the eye, then extended his hand. There could be no doubt this was the one of whom they had heard. One gaze into his pale gray eyes and Aedh knew him to be a different breed of man than he had ever met.

  “I am Colum of Iona,” the man said, in a quiet but powerful voice and unfamiliar tongue.

  Behind him, another translated the words. Aedh nodded that he had understood, then stretched out his own hand to clasp that of their visitor.

  “Thank you for your greeting,” continued Columba. “Will you take us to your brother the king?”

  “I will take you to the fortress. You are expected. I am not, however, in my brother’s council nor of his court. I do not know when he will see you.”

  Columba nodded. Now first he noticed the young boy and girl, hand in hand at the side of the king’s brother.

  “Are these your children?” he asked with a smile.

  Aedh nodded.

  Columba turned his face to them, then knelt down.

  “What is your name?” he asked of the lad.

  The translator made his meaning clear.

  “Fineach-tinnean,” replied the boy, clutching more tightly to his father’s hand on one side of him, and his sister’s on the other.

  “A name fit for a grown man,” remarked Columba with a smile of good-natured humor. “What does it mean?”

  “A link in the chain of his kin,” answered the boy’s father. “He is called Fintenn.”

  “Fintenn,” repeated Columba thoughtfully, “a good name, I would say. And what is yours?” he now said, addressing the girl.

  “Anghrad,” she replied.

  “Also a good name.”

  He paused, looked back to the boy, then placed his hand on his head and gazed deeply into his eyes.

  “May the Lord Jesus bless you, son of Aedh, nephew of the king. May he make you a son of his Father in heaven . . . and thus the most worthy link in the chain of your clan’s heritage it is possible for a man to be.”

  Lifting his hand, he turned and now placed it upon the girl’s head.

  “And may the Lord bless you too, Anghrad, and make you and your children also faithful links, as your brother, in the Father’s family.”

  Columba smiled affectionately, leaving boy and girl gaping in astonished bewilderment at what the strange words and accompanying smile might mean. He turned and followed the brother of the king up the hill toward the fortress, while the rest of the men of his party and the Caledonians who had come down to water’s edge to meet them trailed close behind.

  Ten

  Aedh led the party straight between the stone walls of the settlement, the crowd steadily increasing in size as they went.

  Following at some distance, the furtive form of a woman darted in and out between walls and shadows, tagging behind but keeping the newcomers in sight. She seemed reluctant to draw close or join the throng moving from water’s edge up the hill to the king’s house. The expression on her face displayed more than simple curiosity. She appeared as one mesmerized.

  By appearance she could have been thirty, but was in fact only twenty-five. Hers was an ancient profession that aged women before their time, in both body and soul. She was not beautiful, though in her eyes could be seen that expression which drew low men and made them lust for such as she. But the hypnotic attraction which now pulled her along behind the crowd was from an altogether different world than the only one she had ever known.

  Why she had followed the sounds of the crowd to the river, Diorbhall-ita could not have said. She had no interest in holy men or kings. How could they help her plight? Fathers, kings, and men, she had all learned to despise together. But once she had laid the eyes of her starving heart upon the tall form of he who stepped from the boat to speak with Aedh and now walked at his side, she could not take her eyes off him. His face shone with something she had never seen. It was a glow that compelled her to follow. No thought entered her mind to possess such a man, as she could be said to possess the men of the settlement who came to her in the darkness.

  She could only follow and watch, drawn to the face with fascination. Her dove had arrived from up the same river beside which she had offered her childhood prayer of desperation.

  The party of newcomers led by the king’s brother walked through the gate of the village, which stood open, and into the central courtyard in front of the king’s residence, the largest building of the place. It was barred by two large wooden doors, tightly shut.

  Still Aedh saw no delegation from his brother on hand to welcome the visitors. By now their arrival could hardly be unknown to anyone for miles. The entire settlement had poured into the courtyard and now gathered about. Though up to two hundred must have been present, the only sounds were of shuffling feet and the general bustle of movement. Not a word came from the watchers. Silently the throng observed the approach to the king’s house. Many fears and superstitions mingled with its collective curiosity.

  Aedh indicated the well in the middle of the courtyard where the newcomers might sit and refresh themselves, then, prefaced by a word of apology, said he would attempt to learn the king’s whereabouts.

  “Be not anxious about myself or my men, friend Aedh,” replied Columba through the Pict Comgall. “The afternoon is well advanced. We will begin our day’s vespers and thank our God for safe conduct.”

  The smile on the tall priest’s face temporarily removed Aedh’s annoyance over his brother’s absence.

  Before they could begin, however, a sudden commotion broke out at the back of the crowd. Suddenly it was aroused to speech.

  “What is she doing here!” came a cry.

  “It’s the prostitute!” shouted a woman’s voice.

  A great pushing and shoving began against the woman in their midst who had suddenly been seen.

  “Get her away!”

  Some of the women struck at her.

  “Out of the gate with her!”

  Hearing the noise, Columba came forward. The crowd parted and slowly quieted. He reached the center of the clamor just as one of the men who had joined in the fray was poised to throw a fist-sized rock toward the woman’s body.

  With a strong grip Columba seized the man’s wrist and held it fast. The look of rebuke with which he pierced the man’s eyes was enough.

  The priest let go of the man’s arm.

  “Are you, my friend, without sin that you would cast the first stone?” said Columba. His tone was strong and compelling.

  A brief silence followed. Columba nodded toward one of his translators. The Irish Pict now repeated the words in the native tongue. A low murmur of astonishment swept through the crowd at such a bold and unusual saying. As if struck by an invisible blow from the words, the man stepped back two or three steps. As he did, he was unable to remove his eyes from Columba’s face.

  The stone fell to the ground with a dusty thud. The accuser backed away and was swallowed by the crowd.

  Columba now tur
ned and knelt to face the object of the crowd’s derision and hatred where she had fallen. As he did, he signaled to the Pict Comgall to approach and join him.

  Columba gazed into the woman’s face. He saw neither Scot nor Pict, neither man nor woman, neither prostitute nor king’s daughter. He beheld only two eyes of common humanity staring up at him, filled with tears.

  “What is your name, my child?” he said tenderly.

  Comgall translated the words.

  “Diorbhall-ita,” she replied timidly. Her white face was dusty and tearstained. Her light brown hair fell straight and tangled down on all sides, partially obscuring eyes and cheeks. Unconsciously she brushed back a few loose strands and wiped at her eyes.

  “Diorbhall—God’s gift,” smiled Columba. “What a treasure is such a name. It also means thirsty. Tell me, are you thirsty, my child—thirsty for the water of life?”

  The great liquid eyes continued to stare at Columba, in disbelief that such a man as he would speak to the likes of her.

  “I believe that you are God’s gift, Diorbhall-ita,” said Columba. “And I believe that he will satisfy your thirst.”

  He rose and stretched his hand down toward her. “Rise, my daughter,” he said. “Come to the well and sit. Listen to our songs and prayers and see if they do not refresh your soul.”

  As one in a trance, she took his hand. He helped her to her feet and led her to the well. The crowd watched with incredulity, wondering what manner of man this was who had come into their midst and now made himself the friend of outcasts.

  Eleven

  Aedh now turned toward the doors of the king’s hall.

  Behind him Columba and his men seated themselves on the ground. They were soon praying and chanting softly. Beside the well sat the thirsty prostitute, listening but not understanding, weeping though she knew not why. Encircling them, but from a wary distance, two hundred or more Caledonians watched the strange proceedings in renewed silence.